Mentor & screw the deadline and most of my friends

So I've decided to sack my mentor. Or really, not sacking as much as not renewing our contract. Last time we met I was told to make sure I brought my diary to our meeting in August so we could look at future dates, but in my mind our contact is up - it was a 12 month contract which started in September 2012 - and I don't think this is providing me with what I need any more. I'm planning to reassess in December/January, after the dreaded REF is over.

I am a little pissed (I'm like over half way through a bottle of wine and haven't eaten - ha ha!) to be honest, after having wasted the last two months writing things against my gut, just because I was told that what I was doing wasn't working. Only to then be told to go back to my original idea. Not that I can blame someone else for their comments - after all, it's up to me to take onboard what I think is important. But I guess I somehow trusted my mentor's judgment more than any feedback I would get from someone in a workshop for instance. So yes, 10000+ words in the bin. And money. But more importantly - time. 

Because this also means I'm not going to finish it by my deadline. I know I'll get a lot done while in NYC, but I also know my limitations. My coach (yes, I have one of those too - leadership and management development training at work but we spend most of the time talking about why some people think it's ok to sexually harass me (see my other blog for that and also know that apparently it's my fault because "what did you expect would happen?" - erm, that no one would try to tvangshangla me? Dick!) and my writing) keeps pushing me to commit to so many words per day or so many chapters but really, considering how hard I am on myself I think I'd rather just say that as long as I show up and write - which I did last summer - I'm good.

I went to an event called "Reinvent yourself" or some shit like that last Sunday. A friend of mine had a free guest pass and offered it to me so I went along. I was sceptic, still am, but I learned some useful things. Like I'm not an island. I need to ask for help sometimes (as fucking if!). I also had the fact that I need to open my heart reinforced (I knew this already, and this is really for my other blog but it's all kinda interconnected). But more importantly I learned that if you add up what your 5 closest friends weigh and then divide that in five, you'll get your weight so I'm getting new really skinny friends. 

I kid I kid!

Or maybe not. Because what I really picked up on is that I have no support what so ever from people around me (apart from the person who took me to this event). Support from friends and family is so important. And I pretty much have none. It's like people just think this is some joke. No one ever asks me how my writing is going. No one ever asks me what I'm writing about. No one ever asks to read anything (which is ok, that I don't mind). But considering this is one of the most important things in my life, how come no one who's supposedly my friend cares enough to ask about it? And when I asked one of my closest friends to kick my ass to make sure I stayed on track she said she'd be delighted to, only to halfheartedly do it once. Once... I mean, really? So yes, I need new people around me. 

So: SCREW YOU ALL! No really. I listen to you talking about your babies, your affairs, or someone not responding to texts, your job hunts, your problems with colleagues/partners/mothers/bosses - and I ask, how are you, how is that going blah blah blah? And yes, you ask me the same but NO ONE EVER ASKS HOW MY WRITING IS GOING. No wonder I avoid half my friends nowadays and seek out new people to hang out with (including unruly professors).

Wow. I didn't know I felt this way. But I do.

So I wil say it again: SCREW YOU ALL! 

Synopsis

My mentor has set me up with a man. 

No, not like that. Another writer who she has worked with. She thinks he's a good editor and writer and we can work together to further our novels. He's at the very start of his; I'm somewhere in the middle of my novel. Or the lowest circle of novel writing hell. 

I'm meeting him next week. He sent me his first chapter on Wednesday. I am ashamed to say I haven't looked at it yet because I'm so wrapped up in me things (like getting unhealthily skinny - see my new blog for that and other non-writing related antics) and work is taking way too much time and energy. 

I passed on my chapter 6 to him because I know I'm rewriting the entire first chapter and more work is needed to get the others in shape, whereas chapter 6 and 7 are, like, done. (Note that my chapters are all very long - 4500-6000 words - so chapter 6 is already a fairly long way in.) 

But I have to write a synopsis.

So I have actively spent today doing nothing. Structured procrastination. But enough already, right? I have therefore taken myself to the much despised Starbucks where I've sat down to write my synopsis. I reckon it could be a good way anyway of getting my thoughts into some sort of comprehensive cohesive way forward. 

Frankly, I think I'm in this place though, this lowest circle of writing hell, because I listened too much to my mentor and her take on what I had to do with my protagonists. M is totally fucked - nothing like I had planned. And how can I write a character I'm not feeling? So.

It's not back to the drawing board - it's onwards and upwards. And the deadline is still September 10. I'm going to finish the synopsis now, start writing M the way she's supposed to be, and let's hope it rains for the next two months (before I go away to write for a month) so I can stay inside and write. Drunk.  

One-hundred-thirty-nine ...

I've decided to put the number of days left until the deadline as titles of my posts. Figure that will keep my eye on the ball and the pressure on. Unless V.S. comes through for me and starts harassing me.

So I had my monthly meeting with my mentor last night. As usual I left feeling on fire. I had submitted my latest chapter, which was a pretty rough draft, but even so I was told there wasn't many things to pick on. Some awkward sentences (I'm using a lot of parentheses and sub-clauses - like I do in most of my writing - which sometimes can get things in a twist by the time you get to the other end of the parentheses) but nothings that isn’t easily fixed. My mentor usually picks exactly the things I feel I've not quite got right and that is a good sign. According to my mentor.

In my mentor’s mind my deadline is ambitious but with the month off to write it should be doable. Suggested I find someone to swap novels with to edit entire draft come September (anyone reading this and might be interested let me know!). Praise for the line-by-line writing, pathos, humor, characterization, hooks, pace, the seamless transitions from internal reflection to external action - the usual stuff - made me skip home, ready to work my laptop to the bone. I’m good at this. And I don't even realize what I'm doing while I'm doing it.

Writing (and being a war correspondent) is the only thing I've ever wanted to do. Tell stories, make stuff up, invent lives, it's the only thing I'm any good at. I started making up stories before I could write. I remember my grandparents being amazed when I was 10 that I could write with such detail and insight. They were probably also a little sad I had such insight, and already tried so hard to recreate the story.

I’m working on two chapters at the moment – one J and one M. I asked my mentor to pick one for our next meeting and unfortunately it’s an M one. M is one of my main protagonists, the person the novel was supposed to concentrate on when I first started thinking about it, the most psychotic of them all, but she’s the only one I can’t quite pin down. Maybe because she’s too much like me (yes, I realize the implication of just having used the word psychotic in the previous sentence and then saying she’s like me) so every time I think I’ve got her right, she does something that I wouldn’t do so it feels weird. Therefore I’ve decided to completely change her – she’s now so not like me. Apart from the psychotic bit.

Fun though! I have to research some vaudeville stuff for this chapter and got these books

out form the library last week (one can only trust wiki so far!). The cover with the naked lady is actually a book about the cabaret so not really relevant to my story but who can resist borrowing something like that?! 

Kick Me. Hard.

An abysmal weekend. From a writing point of view.

What started off as a well-drafted plan with time for everything I needed to do, and some downtime too, quickly evaporated as the allocated time got sucked into various black holes. Mainly of nothingness.

Even with the declaration of the deadline and even though I actually want to write I’m finding it hard to motivate myself right now. Don’t get me wrong, as soon as I sit down to write I do write and I write for hours. It’s just the sitting down bit that isn’t quite working out for me. My head is always overly active with this, that and the other and it takes a lot of effort to keep it silent so anything which can distract me from it is welcomed in with enthusiasm. So you’d think writing would be a positive distraction.

And it is. When I get around to it.

So what did I do with my weekend?

     Saturday

• Being the disorganized mess I am (I can’t stand the chaos I create but at the same time I am unable to not wreck everything as I go along) I needed to sort my domestic situation out. And I can’t concentrate when my surroundings are in such disarray.
• Errands.  
• Met a friend for what initially was meant to be a 2-3 hour afternoon coffee but ticked over into cocktails and dinner.
• Watched Seven Psychopaths (finally).

Sunday  

• More sorting out of mess made (the extent to which I mess things up is well beyond an hour of returning things to their rightful places).  
• A 15k run (I need to run more, for my insanity and also so I can get back into my clothes I spent the winter eating myself out of fitting into) followed by spending 1 ½ hours (yes NINETY minutes) trying to get Nike+ to add the 15k on to the 22k I’d already run earlier in the week (still not working).
• When I finally admitted how futile that was, I listlessly poked at some impact case studies (work) and dealt with some work emails.
• At 9.30pm I was so fed up with myself I sat down and edited a chapter I’d previously thrown out but have now decided to use after all – so luckily I come out at the end of the weekend with 2000 words despite my best effort (though really more like 0 since they were really already written).

So. Not. Impressed.

One of the reasons I got a mentor was to have structure and so it’d motivate me to write more. Paying someone a hefty amount every month ensures I do at least produce what I hand over for comment - roughly 5000 words. 5000 words is about the length of my chapters, and I do write more than that in a month, but it’s nowhere near enough if I want to finish this damn thing. And I do. I fucking do!

Conclusion – I need a kick in the ass. Anyone like to volunteer? 

Declaration of deadline

So. I’m a bit weird.

Like I don’t like even numbers. So I count stuff. Like I can have one cocktail (which anyone who knows me knows would never happen) or three but not two. And if I have one cocktail of something and then two of the something else I may have to have another one of the one I’ve had two of to make it three and count it one and three. Not four.  (Until I get drunk and lose count). And my tattoos – I have four and one that’s been covered up but I still have five tattoos. Until the day I get the next one, then I won’t count the cover-up any longer. But still have five tattoos.  And one covered up. Five and one. On top of this, I don’t like order – I find what I need and make sense in chaos. And I’m a little obsessive compulsive. Like last year I went from the idea of running 500k in a year to piling up 1503k. Because I got completely obsessed with seeing the kilometers increase.

And what’s this got to do with writing? you ask.

Well, I’ve set a goal to finish the first draft of my novel by September 10 2013. This is not an arbitrary date picked out of one of my fabulous hats – oh no! This is the last day of my planned writing retreat and also the last day before I’m getting locked in the office to play with the REF for three+ months. I reckon there’ll be no time for writing then, but second drafting should be ok.

But how am I going to do this? I guess I'm hoping I'll be able to trick my little obsessive brain into overdrive and for every day I write, or for every 1000 words or for whatever it’ll take the obsession to finish this one step closer to just that. But the tricking of the brain is difficult. I’ve tried to get obsessed with running again because right now I don’t quite have the flat stomach of last summer .And despite my strong adverse reaction to the idea of spending lots of time at work, 11-13 hour days are sneaking back in. So I'm slightly worried about how to turn the obsession on. Which is why I figured blogging about it might help. Or not. At least it will fuel my procrastination - because I need more of that for sure. Although I’d like to think a structured one but alas not always). 

So it’s going well so far [she said sarcastically]. I’ve spent the evening running and then writing this blog post in between a bunch of work emails. Never mind I have a deadline to send a chapter which is not quite finish to my mentor (another incentive which has worked well so far) tomorrow. Please brain, let the obsessive compulsive need to add more words kick in!

Just words

It stings, does it not? They trickle into your conscious. Then, like hot oil they burn slowly through the layers of defence, get under your skin and linger. Fester. You can claw at them, but once said they dig deeper and deeper until they discover the softest and most vulnerable spot.

And they are just words.

I watch you now, as the edge of my voice breaks you. It feels good to be able to knock the air out of your lungs just by using my vocal cords. You may think it is not taking any effort on my part, that I like doing this. But it is as painful for me as it is for you. Yet, there is satisfaction as I watch the impact of my words reach your eyes. Flickering uncertainty.

If I wanted, I could turn a single syllable into a weapon, a sigh into an insult, my lips into hatred. I chose this one sentence with care. The words I knew would injure you most, make your life falter. See, I know how to get you, where to get you, when to get you. I bet you wish you had not let me this far in.

You stand there, silent, as if I have deprived you of air, placed you in a vacuum. Your arms cling motionless along the sides of your body, the wine bottles sit in front of you on the mat like abandoned children, and the one lace you had time to undo before I demolished your world looks like a dead vine that has lost all its leaves.

But they are just words.

I love you. 

The Saint Annabelle

Alcohol (preferably rum, bourbon, whiskey or gin)

3 oz impudence

3 oz sarcasm

3 oz hussy

1 ½ oz incorrigibleness

1 ½ oz trouble and troublemaker

1 ½ oz sweetness

½ oz manipulation

½ oz madness

½ oz inappropriate flirtation

3 inch piece wit

1 inch piece total disregard for authority

Stick of fresh shamelessness for garnish

No modesty

Served straight up in anything that can hold it.